Daring truths
by Kitty Ryan
Summary: "What do you dare, kitten?" - In the aftermath of Hawke's altercation with the Arishok, Isabela has every intent of scarpering off somewhere far away and disreputable to lick her wounds and salvage her reputation. Merrill stops her at the back door. Smut, with a side of bedroom dynamics and friendship.
1. Chapter 1

It did not start in The Hanged Man. That would make sense. It would follow the logic of Varric's stories—beer scented and a little twisted, but always coming home. No. It started with wide eyes and shocked looks, quieter than Hawke's appalled, damnable honour that saw the mage stuck on the Arishok's sword for _her_, of all people. For a book that had been too easy to steal for something this dangerous—and tedious—to keep.

Isabela thought Hawke had been the worst of it. Hawke's hope had made her come back, after all. And the infuriating woman had the gall to say that she knew she'd do it, too. No wonder Sebastian followed her, all zealot-eyes and endearing confusion as he found himself aiding and abetting apostates every second Tuesday. No wonder Fenris wore that mad red favor about his wrist, and that Hawke would very probably _wait_ for himuntil Andraste was found in a back room at the Rose. No wonder she and Varric had spent feverish evenings writing, embroidering some exploits and colouring others until they were drunk on charisma instead of whiskey, and she found herself telling the dwarf of an idiot Rivaini called Naishe, who lost her mother at the market, the minute that mother saw a wealthy man.

The whole load of them reeked of commitment, and it made Isabela's insides squirm. Not in a good way.

No. The worst had come later, when she left the Hanged Man with the last remnants of her life slung up in a pack, and Merrill was waiting.

"The back entrance, kitten? That's…" she couldn't stop the smile, tired as it was. "Unexpected."

"Why?" said the elf. Not smiling. Not even a little. "I know you." She had her arms wrapped around herself, eyes huge in the dingy light that eased through cracks in the pub's back door.

Any other time, Isabela would have slung an arm around her, felt the smaller body turn into her warmth like some flower to the sun, making Varric's name for her real. Now, it was all—

"—_Isabela_."

"This whole blasted city knows me, kitten." The words came easily, even if the rest of her refused to follow old patterns. "That's not exactly—"

"You _stop that right now_."

The pirate stared.

"You always joke," Merrill said, letting her arms fall. "And I love your jokes. Don't always understand them, mind, but I do love them. But this isn't—you are not just going to run off. Again. Don't you dare run off again."

"I _dare_ anything," Isabela snapped. "I don't know what you're doing here—shouldn't you be standing between Anders and Fenris as they make asses of themselves? Shouldn't you be…trying to see yourself in that bloody mirror? You should—" Small, calloused hands had taken hers. Isabela felt the fingers twining about her own, knew she could break that hold if she wanted. But she had never pulled away from Merrill.

"I," said the elf, in a fierce whisper that the other woman had to lean in to hear, "Dare _you_."

Surprise made her breath catch. Surprise and the new, determined set to the elf's mouth; the warm and suddenly much stronger grip on her hands. Isabela felt fingertips press into the back of her wrist, felt strong thumbs on her palm. _The Dalish, she thought, rather dizzily. Outdoorsy types. Good at setting traps._

The silliness made her smile. She pulled, just a little, and found that Merrill was ready for it, tightening her grip and easing into a stance that made the pirate remember nights in an old barn in the Anderfels, where one particularly lovely man showed her how to twist so that your opponent just _flew_ wherever you wanted them. Her eyebrows rose.

"What do you dare, kitten?"

"To trust me," said Merrill, eyes intent. "You can run away again tomorrow, be all embarrassed that you have people who love you and want to keep you safe and would hurt themselves to do it. No—hush." Merrill spoke over Isabela's outraged squawk, hands tightening still further. "You can do all or none of that tomorrow, but…stay with me tonight. You didn't even say goodbye when you left with that relic."

"So I should when I leave without it?" Isabela said, with some acid.

"That's right," said Merrill. "Exactly right." Reaching up, Merrill freed once hand to cup Isabela's cheek. "And I _want_ you to stay."

The emphasis was unmistakable. And, coming from Merrill, it was shocking. Isabela felt her eyes widen as the elf's thumb brushed out across her lower lip."

"You…want me to come home with you," the pirate said. "And not to get a very good night's sleep."

"Oh, I don't know." Merril smiled. A tiny, familiar smile, as she shrugged. The tips of her ears, even in this trickster light, were pink. "I find I always sleep very well after sex. Don't you?

Isabela stared.

"What? It's _true_."

Isabela managed to pull her hands away, though it left her breathless and Merrill rocking back on her heels, eyes wide and full of blooming hurt until the pirate laid them warm and strong against her face, mirroring her. She ran her thumb across one sharp cheekbone, scored a curl of intricate ink with her nail. She felt the flush and softness of the other woman's skin. Considered her mouth. Looking at Merrill here, like this, Isabela was suddenly amazed and shamed that she never had considered the woman's mouth. Teasing, she let her thumb brush there, expecting a whimper and feeling her heart stutter a little as the elf jerked her head, catching Isabela's thumb firmly between her teeth. She sucked.

And Isabela whimpered.

"Everyone always acts," said Merrill as she drew a little away, her hands now moving to Isabela's shoulders, "As if I don't know what I want. And that's _so stupid_, you see? I hope you see."

"…I—"

"You _will_ see."

And it was Merrill who lent up to kiss her, twining and sweet and pulling Isabela's head down to better tease her mouth, tongue soon wicked-deep and sure, and those hands pulling tight enough in her hair that Isabela felt white, bright flicks of pain. She reveled in them.

"Come home with me, _lethallan_." Merrill was smiling as she pulled back, taking in the other woman's shaky breathing, the way it was she, this once, who seemed drawn to follow another's body. She pressed a kiss to Isabela's throat, and laughed against it as she felt the pulse jump there.

"I…I think I'd better," Isabela said. "Are you going to keep being bossy?"

Merrill's answer was a sharp nip to her throat. A soft, soothing lick that only made the bite ache more beautifully. Isabela shuddered.


	2. Chapter 2

Isabela was used to Merrill's home. She knew its clutter and the noise from the outside Alienage; knew the way the great tree patterned one wall when the light hit it just right, a little past noon. She was used to the strange mix of smells—food half-burned and washed linens and—yes—daisies. The bright, sharp scent made her throat itch, but never enough to complain. They always made Merrill smile. Isabela was used to the smell of solder and blood: sulfur and copper and dangerous magic, and the mirror that never showed what her friend so desperately needed to see.

She had sat on the lone bed many times, laughing over a day's work or Varric's latest offering. She had held Merrill's hands and listened to her speak of home; tried to distract her with wicked stories from her own past, each larger and more fanciful than the last. She had swaggered for her, just a little, and laughed herself to gasping tears as the elf had tripped over her own feet in imitation.

Now, Isabela was backed up against this bed, falling as Merrill pressed a leg between hers, hands busy at sash and scabbards and the slip of skin that showed through the splits in her tunic. There were lips at her throat, her shoulder. Back to her mouth. Isabela felt the muscles working in her shoulders and arms, let her own hands trail and unlace and stop, holding tight as Merrill shifted her leg again, hips rolling and a sweet, wicked smirk gracing her mouth.

Her friend drew out one of the loosened daggers, holding it carefully in one hand, watching as her dim, faintly smoky lamp light tricked over its surface.

"You'll never get them all, you know."

"Do you think so?" Merrill set the dagger aside, drawing the second duelist blade. "I don't think so."

"Sweet thing—"

"Hush." Still smiling, still leaning over the taller woman, Merrill drew Isabela's arm up towards her, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, and then higher, tongue flicking beneath the worn leather of her arm sheath. "I have two already," she said. "And this is the third. Lay back, _lethallan_."

Sudden coldness as Merrill pulled back from her. Pressure on her ankle. The faint rasp of pulled laces and mutters of, "Oh, they do go on _forever_, don't they? So lovely…"

A boot was tugged free, and Isabela twitched as warm hands grasped her foot and fingers worked deftly at the strapping on her ankle. "A fourth, plus the one in your boot, so that's five. Where next?"

Isabela flushed. "You know where those are?"

"I can guess. I'm good at guessing." Merrill grinned, the hand at her ankle now moving up over calf, the inside of her thigh. The touch was smooth, relentless. Hardly sexual at all—no teasing changes in pressure or scrape of a nail, no following the path with her mouth. But it was _purposeful_, and Merrill's grin had faded to a look of such seriousness that Isabela shuddered, leaning in and feeling herself hot and wet and right, just for this.

She had been undressed before, but no one went for the daggers first. The small ones. The secret pieces that kept her safe even when her flashier dueling pieces were removed. Isabela jerked as Merrill found the thigh sheath.

"And six."

Isabela arched, smiling as Merrill laughed at her, very soft, her hands now pushing her back down, gentle and insistent as they moved to her waist. "Seven, but that one's easy. No need to hint, love."

"I'm just—_encouraging_." Isabela swallowed. Merrill's fingers were light as they slipped between her breasts, the fingertips cool and making her moan as she felt her nipples harden, felt the barely-there stimulation of fabric against skin when she wanted a stronger touch. She wanted lips and teeth and that pretty head where fingers were. "I'm a very encouraging person."

"_Eight_," Merrill breathed. "Do people write bad poetry about your breasts? I think they should."

"They even write _good_ poetry."

"Mine would be bad, so I'm not going to try," Merrill said, giggling just a little. "But I still want to touch them." Again, ghosting pressure of fingertips, once the tiny paring knife was set aside. "You know that, don't you? They're just so…you'd feel so _good_ in my mouth, and I want to know if you make pretty noises."

Her eyes were closed. Isabela felt herself straining. Felt surprise and delight mix into her heartbeat and breath. Her breasts were full, aching. "You can find out _now_."

"Not yet." Merril's voice was steady, and Isabela felt those hands draw away. It made her want to whine. To arch and curse and break the delicate, sweet tension that spooled out between them. "There's one more, I think. And you need to turn over for that one." Isabela opened her eyes to see a hectic flush on the other woman's face.

"On your knees, Isabela."

"What, no _please_, sweet thing?"

"No." Merrill eased out of her jerkin and shift, expression intent. Isabela's moth went dry. Merrill was _corseted_ under all that gear. Not heavily, the sort that could easily be shrugged out of, the way the elf was doing now, but it was the sort of pretty underthings Isabela knew you did not find in many Lowtown shops, all black and red and setting off her pale skin in ways that told the pirate her imagination had, when it came to her friend, been sadly lacking.

"_Yes_," Isabela breathed. "Please." She moved, turning over on the bed, feeling herself draw up on her knees and the familiar brace of forearms, feeling wet and exposed even with her clothes still in place, The last knife felt heavy against her, near-painful against aching skin.

More rustling. A soft, wondering noise and hands moving over her back, down over her arse. Isabela had to fight to stay still, groaning as Merrill slid a hand up under her tunic at the thigh, skating over her smalls and then up to loosen the small, secret buckles that rested in her lower back. She felt the belt loosen and fall away from her skin, tugged down over her arse and falling to her bent knees. The elf left it there, but removed the blade.

"And that's nine," she said. "So very many." Her touch shifted, running back up her thigh, pulling gently at smallclothes and making her squirm as she felt those, too, gather about her knees. Fingers that had been impossibly light now pressed harder, nails scraping faintly over belly and the inside of her thigh; her arse, again.

Isabela's hips canted forward. She swallowed. "Merrill, sweet, I…"

"You're _gorgeous_." Merrill cupped her, palm pressing up against her, and Isabela gasped. "But you didn't say if there were any left."

Another laugh, another rocking movement from her wrist. Another hand—Maker's _tits_, it was sinful and glorious that people had two hands at times like this, when the obvious was surprising and everything was _right_—that felt cool and slick from some bottle the pirate hadn't seen or a spell she had not heard cast, and steady, teasing circles of a thumb at her arse, pressing in just a little as Merrill's other hand shifted and there was the sweet pressure of one long, fine-boned finger easing into her cunt.

"Do you think I need to check?"


	3. Chapter 3

Isabela had a good head for details. She knew this, knew it the first time she had challenged an uppity Highever lord to a duel she knew she would lose, simply so she could see—and replicate, the _next time_—a particularly good piece of footwork.

The best parts of Varric's tales were hers as much as his. Sex was a rough-sweet-silly-intense-wet-hard-fierce-soft-mad _glorious_ thing, and a part of her liked to take note of the best feelings, the right touches on herself or others. But there was something about Merrill—about her friend here, teasing her and laughing and unafraid both in her awe ("Ooh, yes. That's rather lovely, isn't it?" The elf's head tilted to the side as she had Isabela naked, on her back, pressing one hand down gently on her belly as she curled up three fingers inside her, stretching and sure and deep enough to have Isabela rocking against them. "You're just _dripping_ all down my wrist…") and her desires that made Isabela's head spin.

(That same hand, wetness gleaming there in the lamplight, Isabela spent and shaking and aching just a little—there had been four fingers, in the end, with promises of more if she was good, and-and-and-and Andraste's screaming _tits_—"You lick that all up now, _lethallan_. And then I want you touch me.")

Merrill, holding her close, hands tangling in her hair as she arched against Isabela's tongue, and not blushing when the pirate looked up, one eyebrow raised briefly as she made easy, lavicious show of running her tongue around one nipple. No, she grinned back, breath hitching but her hands still sure and tugging, taking Isabela's own and placing it between their bodies. She brought herself off _with_ (with and on and through and…fucking _hell_, it was easier to lose herself in sensations than in where the mad tangle of prepositions that small, observant part of her brain found itself. ) She _used_ Isabela's hand, and the wantonness of it made the other woman shudder, body loose against Merrill's, letting herself be held. She felt every movement: both their hands drenched now. Both sets of fingers fast and urgent, clit hard and straining; the salt-sweet-bitter taste of her skin clean on Isabela's lips as she laved one nipple; left gentle, sucking bites over her small, sensititve breasts. The taste of almond oil and sex, her legs tight about Merrill's slight body and the complete concentration Merrill gave, eyes locked on Isabela's as she came, the stream of endearments and observations and encouragements cut off, face flushed and pupils blown.

Isabela kissed her. Her mouth, her cheeks. The tip of her nose. Watched the colours change in her face, felt the slow relaxation of muscles and the tickle of that dark, soft hair as the elf rested her head on her friend's shoulder.

"That was _beautiful_, kitten."

A small laugh. "I know what I want, _lethallan_," she said. "I know I can't always get it, mind—"

"—oh, you _got me_, no fear."

Lips, firm and brief and sweet against hers. "Hush. What I'm saying is that I am _strong enough_. I can go and get lost in this filthy, mad city and get home again, even if I did use string for two years. I can use _my_ blood in my magic and it's still clean, and the Fade knows it. No spirit has taken me. They're not going to. I can let them all laugh at me, and I can—" she broke off, a blush colouring her cheeks.

Isabela smiled, slow and secret. "Be really good in bed?"

"That, too!" She laughed again, very soft. "But I can also say goodbye now, if you want to. If you need to. I know you want your ship, and you gave up a _lot_, even if it was right. Doesn't really matter that it was right, does it?" She raised one hand, placing it just above Isabela's breast, flat against the warm skin there. "Not sometimes. Not _here_. So…I can say goodbye, but only because you let me say it. All Hawke's people are mine, now, but you…I think you're my best friend."

"Kitten," said the pirate, slow and hoarse. "That's just giving me reasons to stay."

Merrill smiled. Sunshine. "That would also be very nice."


End file.
